


Fragments

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen or Pre-Slash, Post-Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7890994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Washington has lost a lot.</p><p>He's not willing to lose what he has left.</p><p>or Tucker, after Charon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is David [REDACTED] and you’ve lost a lot of things in this life.

 

That feels like an understatement, you wonder while sitting in a hospital chair that is far too small and far too stiff. Freelancer has taken so much from you that some days it’s hard to remember what you kept, what you managed to cling onto. What is gone completely and what you managed to scrap. You kept your name, but only half of it, the surname lost to your mind forever. You kept your anger, but not your restraint over it. You kept your face, but you lost your smile, at least the smile you had before, the one that could fool people into believing you’d never been a soldier. 

 

Back when Epsilon was in your head, he said you would never know what it felt like to be him, to have parts of yourself missing, torn away by strange hands, cradled in minds of unknown faces. At the time, he was right; you didn’t know, you could have never imagined, even with you both sharing the same headspace for so long.

 

Now, he’s wrong. Because you have sat across a man with your file in his hands, and you had realized with a dawning sense of horror that out of the two people in that room, he was the one who knew your last name. 

 

The clock ticks on the wall. It’s an old thing, not even electronic, and you can’t remember the last time you saw a clock with actual hands outside of a history book. It’s not the only thing on Chorus this out of date-no the planet seems to almost be a collection of technology out of time-but it’s the first you’ve seen inside the hospital ward. If one could call the school turned emergency center that the army had set up a hospital ward. 

 

The clock ticks. Another hour gone. You close your eyes.

 

This is what Freelancer has taken from you: Your last name, your first kiss, your friends, your memory of the smell of freshly baked apple pie.

 

This is what you have managed to gain from its collapse: A family of color coded soldiers, an understanding of your own anger when left unchecked, a small scrap of peace when you are able to find it.

This is what you are now at risk of losing: endless complaints about early morning drills, a hand in your hair when nightmares get too fierce, brown eyes that are too often hidden by a helmet for your liking. 

 

You open your eyes. Lavernius Tucker rests on the bed. He has not opened his eyes since Charon, not since he let out a wail that echoed through the ship and made you run faster than you ever dared. Grey isn’t sure if he ever will.

 

After getting up, you walk towards the bed. It’s not the first time you’ve done this during your watch (everyone switches off every three hours) and it likely won’t be the last. Tucker’s looks almost sleep if it wasn’t for the stillness. And the lack of snoring.

 

Your brain, a traitorous thing, wonders if Tucker will understand you now, understand Epsilon, after this. If he will forget things too, if you will have to show him pictures of his son, and give him information he once gave you. 

 

Before you even think about it, you wrap your fingers together and begin to speak.

 

“Your name is Lavernius Tucker.”

 

There is nothing.

 

“You’re a member of the simulation troopers for Blue Team. You’ve served for over a decade.” 

 

He takes a deep breath.

 

“You have a son named Junior. He adores you.”

 

The clock ticks on the wall.

 

“You always complain about practice every morning. You think sword fighting is cool, but you’ve never bothered to actually learn. You hate the sound of creaky doors because it reminds you of horror movies. You’re not a bad shot with a sniper rifle, but you hate using one because it reminds you of Alpha.”

 

You can hear Doctor Grey tend to patients in the room next door.

 

“You like my freckles and tried to draw a dick with them once when I was asleep. You think I should take my armor off more before it fuses to my skin. You’ve been trying to get me to use my throwing knives to knock food out of Grif’s hand for months.”

 

It’s too much. You close your eyes and bend down, resting your forehead against his. Try to picture something else, anything else. Sitting at the canyon as the sun sat above, hot as hell. The crash site where he stole your helmet and impersonated you for a full hour. The darkness of a room you two shared in Armonia.

Anything but reality in front of you.

 

“Your name is Lavernius Tucker,” you say. “And you need to wake up.”

 

The clock hums in the background.

 

You do not move for another five minutes. 


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Lavernius Tucker and shit is fucked.

That feels like an exaggeration, you think, staring down at some pictures Junior has sent you over the coms. All things considered, shit is going pretty well; you’re able to call your son for the first time in over a year, Wash has decided to let you skip drills until the UNSC gets here, and Simmons is finally out of the hospital which means Grif can quit his bitching. All and all, considering everything you’ve been through, it’s a good ending to a miserable few years on this planet. Charon tried to kill you and you made it out alive. Almost all your friends made it out alive. It’s almost good outcome.

The key word, however is almost. Because while Grif is free to bitch about Simmons, and Caboose is alive to annoy him to death for God knows how long, Church is not. Because he died, fragmented, glitched, whatever the fuck they want to call it today. Inside your brain. And that shit is plain FUBAR. Fucked-Up-Beyond-All-Recognition. 

The fact that you now feel like using the word FUBAR on a regular basis is a symptom of shit being fucked. Because you have never used FUBAR in your life. And Church hasn’t either. But another man has, another man with a dead wife and a daughter who likes to kick Tucker’s ass five ways to Sunday, and therein lies the problem. 

(You also have never used the word “therein” in your life either. But processing that right now seems like too much work so you ignore it.)

Here’s what you know. You put on the Meta suit and looked like a badass. Church exploded and (you hope)accidently did so in your brain instead of the suit. You fell into a coma for a week looking like the hotter version of sleeping beauty, and then you woke up with a bunch of memories in your skull that aren’t yours and the worst headache you’ve had since turning 21. 

Wash also might have cried a little. When you opened your eyes. You’re pretty sure he thinks you didn’t notice, but you totally did, which means you now know Agent Washington is an ugly crier. 

(You also now know his name. The one he used to have. And the fact you know that before he told you is also fucked.)

You look back down at the photos. The ones Junior sent you over a shitty connection that took forever to upload. They’re of stuff he thinks you should have, and stuff you requested, a mix of the two on one holopad. The new stuff is great, pretty awesome actually, your son being the badass he’s always been. A picture of him at basketball with the state trophy will be added to your outdated wallet. The old stuff is what troubles you.

Because you get to a photo of you and Junior on at some sort of alien fair grinning ear to ear, and you have no fucking idea when you took this.

It’s not just the photo, because if it was just the photo, it wouldn’t bother you. You don’t remember the whole event, how you got there, why you went there, what it was like. None of it, from the weird alien toy in Junior’s hands, to what looks to be green slime in your hair. And you never forget shit about your son, not the shit that matters. 

Doctor Grey warned you there might be memory loss. Confusion. You thought you got off lucky.

You’re wondering otherwise now. 

The door opens and you know who it is before he even comes in. Wash is like a hawk these days, watching you like he’s afraid you’re about to croak, and you’re both annoyed and thankful for it. 

You speak before he can, holding up the photo.

“Did I ever tell you about this?”

 

Wash’s concerned expressions fades to annoyance. Mild annoyance, but it’s still there. “Tucker, if you tell me about that “alien babe” one more time-”

“There was an alien babe?”

That stops Wash. He looks at you strange for a second, eyebrows knitting together. After a moment his eyes grow wide. “You don’t remember.”

You don’t. You don’t remember a thing. 

“Nope. Guess I got really wasted.” You know you didn’t; Wash wouldn’t know the story unless you told him, which means you had to remember it at some point. “Wanna refresh my memory? Don’t forget to give me all the details. Especially the sexy ones.”

Wash groans, but when he sits down next to you, his eyes are full of concern. You kinda hate it. He tells the story in a typical Wash fashion, straightforward with the occasional dramatic touch. By the end of it, you look back at the photo and try to remember it yourself. Nothing comes to mind except a redheaded girl at a carnival in Texas.

“Shit.” You look at Wash, your shoulders slumping. “Shit. I don’t remember any of it man.”

“You might. Eventually.”

“Might?” Wash doesn’t look at you. It’s not the answer you wanted, but the one you expected. You let out a sigh. “Fuck, what if I forget more.”

A hand grabs your shoulder and Wash’s forget rests against yours. This you do remember doing. On the battlefield once when you thought no one was looking. In private, snickering at Wash’s assortment of freckles. 

“You won’t.” Wash’s voice it low, the commander voice, the Freelancer voice. No room for arguement. 

“Can’t promise that man.”

“Already have. You won’t forget. I won’t let you.”

You force a smile. “Gonna nag me into remembering?”

Wash’s eyes remain serious. His grip on your shoulder is strong. “If that’s what it takes.”

You close your eyes and think, think back to moments like these over the years. Ones clear, some less defined. Next, you turn your thoughts to Junior, to his laugh, how he soon got too big for you to carry in your arms.

The sound that toy in the photo makes when squeezed too tight.

With Wash’s forehead against yours, the fragment of a memory slipping through your mind like smoke, you smile.


End file.
